


Bellflower Marks the Spot

by wrothmothking



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Classism, F/M, mentioned prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 05:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: They're soulmates. It doesn't help.





	1. Chapter 1

Zevran is five when he notices a word on his skin not writ by his own hand, the clumsiness of the penmanship as alien as the blocky letters. His first thought is of the other children, his second of his caretakers, and his third says it can't be either. The former would not risk the latter's wrath now that Zevran's survived to a profitable age, and the whores themselves know better. How else would the ladies--and gentlemen--of the night read their lovers' awkward poetry and return their own, hiding laughter in a pleased, but soft smile, empty of ridicule and full of a desperate fondness--not too desperate, though. Enough to stoke their egos and secure a tip, perhaps a gift, yet still too little to scare away a besotted client with things to lose. Social standing, a comfortable, even loving marriage, an inheritance.

While not Antivan, the word looks familiar. As he watches, more ink spawns, shaping into characters he cannot ascribe sound or meaning to. A different language. What is this? Was he cursed? Had one of his targets yesterday been a mage in disguise, someone so vindictive they'd allow the theft to exercise worse punishment than the guards'? More likely he'd be conscripted into them than lose a hand like the law promised, thanks to his youth.

So, then, could the first word be a threat, or an accusation, and the rest runes? Zevran'd never seen them before, never seen a shred of magic. Odd, that he would not feel it, not know the moment it happened.

Assuming that's what this is.

Suddenly, terribly fearful, Zevran throws on the thinnest jacket he had. Another layer to suffer through in Antiva's sweltering, mid-summer heat would be worth keeping the secret. This place is no home, but it's shelter.

* * *

Rica's hands tremble as she holds her new sister close. Three months she's had Dagny, and for two of those Mother has been lost, grieving the loss of her younger's father and refusing to show it. He left willingly.

How anyone could leave the babe in her lap, so attentive, so beautiful, so smart, so clearly the best of them already, Rica can't understand. She hopes she never does, hopes that if Mother never comes back, if Rica never feels her soft hands combing through her hair as they cuddle on the sofa, Mother's thick, dry voice reading her to sleep, she won't let resentment bloom in her heart for this poor, sweet girl.

Surely, though, such times won't come to pass. Surely, tomorrow, Mother will empty the rest of her ale, make Rica's favorite sandwiches, teach her a new set of words to practice while she's gone to work, and return early in the eve with a new book and a new blanket, soft and so big all three of them will still be able to fit under when Dagny grows up. And she _will_, because Mother will feed her tomorrow and sing her special lullaby, and, too, she will, gently, remind Rica of her care, because it was just the two of them raising her now, but so long as they had each other two was more than enough.

Something in the main room breaks. Dagny whimpers.

"Oh, no, honey. It's alright. Mama isn't feeling well right now, that's all," Rica hushes, rocking her like she's seen Mother do.

Dagny fidgets some more, but doesn't cry. Rica breathes a sigh of relief. Her cheek still stings from last time.

"I have an idea," she says. "Why don't we see if your match is with us yet?"

Casteless weren't supposed to have them. Rica remembers the flat 'no' she'd received in response to a simple, polite greeting, and the hateful silence that came after. That whole day, she'd fumed alone, too embarrassed to mention it to her mother, who'd known well enough to warn her off. Later, much later, Rica relented and went to wash her off. Whatever hope sparked at seeing those two letters still there died when she finally noticed the stark difference in their writing. Hers was crude, learned and 'mastered' a mere day before. Her match's was not. Perhaps he could be one of the casteless Lord Beraht or whoever had seen fit to invest in, to make into more than a simple, thoughtless thug, yet Rica found herself too tired to entertain the idea beyond as a vague possibility.

If nothing happens, if her fated stranger rejects her, Dagny won't remember. Rica will protect her from the knowledge of soulmates as long as she can. They were more of a surfacer concern, anyhow; hardly something either of them needed to worry themselves over.

But it would be nice, knowing.

Rica sets the babe down on their shared bed. It's not where infants are supposed to sleep, but Rica doesn't have much by way of options. At least keeping her close soothes her nerves.

After a few minutes searching through the trunk, Rica finds the ink, along with a quill that's seen better days. She cuts a tuft off her sister's head and ties it to the stick.

She sits with her legs spread, Dagny laid out between her thighs. The arm is the typical place to write, not too intimate and easy to read. Easy to hide, too, with a sleeve or a bandage.

"What do you think we should write, hm?"

Dagny gurgles.

Rica smiles. "I'm not sure how that would translate."

'Hello,' she writes. Then stops. Rica waits a few minutes for a response, strangling the bite of panicked despair that tries to overtake her when nothing comes. Could be they work nights. Could be they're not a dwarf. Could be they're busy.

Could be they're insulted by her using the trade tongue in their first exchange.

Not much dwarvish is still around, and even less of it is known to her. Still, it's ceremonial, so she tries: 'Hello, soul's match. Bless the stone for you.'

Nothing.

"Maybe they're not born yet," she tells Dagny. It's optimism she doesn't feel. Despite having a half dozen excuses at hand, something in Rica screams that the messages were seen.

Rica washes the ink off. 

* * *

Following a day of curious glances and mocking for his sudden modesty, Zevran's grateful to be sent to his room without supper, ahead of the ones he shares it with. A late start coupled with distraction made him short. It stung his pride, but he'd survive.

He tears off his jacket, pulling too hard on a sleeve and causing a rip in the threadbare fabric. Ah, well. The words are gone. He won't need it tomorrow.

But why are the words gone? Had the curse's intent been to scare him? Doubtful.

Zevran grits his teeth. The idea of bringing the mystery to the matron stirs anxiety in his gut. She could disbelieve him, and cast him out for his budding insanity. Or, she could believe him, and cast him out before he infected the others.

Now that the fear is (mostly) gone, curiosity takes its place. Before he's fully aware of it, Zevran's on his way to the matron's office.

It's empty, of course. Unlike him, she gets to eat.

After a few minutes of waiting around, second and third thoughts start creeping in. He's bored, he's anxious, he's hungry, he's hot. His eyes wander.

The word, the one he'd sorta known, it's there: in the greeting of a letter. His gaze takes hold, scans feveredly, but it's all nonsensical mush. No clue as to the meaning of the one he cares about.

The door opens behind him.

Zevran spins, polite smile painted on his face. "Ma'am! I'm sorry to bother-"

The matron raises an eyebrow. "I pray you're not here to try to steal the kitchen key, Zevran."

"I wouldn't dare, I swear."

"Good." She steps passed him, graceful despite her age and the disease that gnaws at her bones.

Zevran waits for her to get comfortable in her chair, speaking when she gestures he's allowed: "I heard a rumor from the other boys, of secret messages written on their skin in their sleep, vanishing on their own by end of day."

Something strange crosses her face, gone before he can identify it. "Which boys did you say these were?"

Zevran's jaw tenses, a tell he's yet grown out of. "I didn't," he says, knowing the game's lost.

"I see. You need not fret; it's nothing bad, if also nothing good."

"What is it?"

"Soulmates."

He snorts.

"My thoughts exactly. Even if you're so unlucky as to meet them, they're just as likely to poison your dinner as anyone else."

"Then what's the point?"

"There isn't one. It's another curse from the Maker, disguised as a curse, like magic. Supposedly, it's so all of his children may experience the love he shared with Andraste, but really, it's so we know his heartbreak from her death."

"But she went to him, when she died."

The matron shrugs, lighting her pipe. "Our god is a wrathful one." Her nose wrinkles. "Love doesn't change that, doesn't change _people_. Do you understand me, Zevran?"

"Yes, ma'am, but, what are the words?"

"Anything your soulmate puts on the surface of their skin shows up on yours and vice versa. You're safe from tattoos, but if they're qunari and slap some vitaar on there, well, you best get used to wearing a mask fast."

"I didn't recognize most of it," Zevran admits. "Just this one." He points.

"Ah, the trade tongue. Also known as the king's and common tongues. Invented by the dwarves. Them and those Fereldans on the far side of their pass speak it."

"Oh." From what he's heard of Fereldan, it's terribly cold and its people are obsessed with massive, bear-like dogs. Zevran hopes that if he ever does meet his match, it's because they've come to Antiva.

"Is your match going to be a problem?" 

"You said they were-"

"It's called the 'trade' tongue for a reason. Many businesses speak it. I should hope that, whoever or whatever they are, whenever you meet, you'll remember the ones who've worked tirelessly to provide for you since your mother's death."

Zevran shivers. "Of course, ma'am."

"Dismissed."

Tail between his legs, Zevran scurries back to his room, relieved to find it unoccupied. Burrowing in a nest of scratchy blankets, he lets himself dream, just for a moment.

Maybe his soulmate's older than him, and they'll come and take him from this awful place. They'll be Antivan, too, so he won't have to leave the spices and sea salt, and they'll set up in a big house just up from the market with three cats and a garden, a garden with gardenias and daisies and sunflowers, perhaps a rose bush or two. And tomatoes, and peppers, and greens.

Maybe they'll be like his father, and lead him into a life of pain, indignity, and death.

The compulsion to write back dies easily.

It's for the best. 


	2. Chapter 2

His match is alive. His match is active.

The Crows hate him for it. It makes him vulnerable, and a flight risk.

They'd bought him at seven, for a fair price. Six years of investing in him later, and the words come back. A different set: it's a grocery list, writ in plain view down the inside of his wrist. It's thanks to the Crows he can read it, yet he feels no gratitude. They decide not to kill him.

He's not the only one.

Two boys are found replying. Those, the Crows hang from the rafters of the house for a week. By their necks, of course.

Taliesen and Rinna are amazing. Together, they three are unstoppable.

Zevran boasts of their talents, their exploits, to anyone who will listen, and quite a few who'd rather not. The whispers about him change quickly. Still negative, but with a lesser chance of Zevran being next. He's useful. He's profitable. He's not a problem.

He's not reporting Rinna's ink. She doesn't add to it, that he sees, but the image of her standing there after a bath, wrapped in a towel, tracing the adoration trailing her collarbone, stays with him.   
She doesn't know the trap, the danger, of those honeyed affections. Rinna will learn their truth on her own time--Zevran hasn't the heart to tell her himself.

What could any of them offer a mate, anyhow? They're weapons of death. Tools of a shadowed company none of them could ever escape. No room in that for a life or a life partner of their own.

It would be better if they were mated to each--no, the Crows would certainly kill them for that.

He ignores the flowers, the scribbled notes, the painting of a nug on the side of his calf. He ignores Taliesen's jealousy and Rinna's interest. He falls into bed with them alone and together, wondering how her match has managed not to spoil the secret of their existence, wondering how Rinna could so clearly want them _and_ two broken assassins. Wondering how many times Taliesen will claw and bite at Zev's words before he's satisfied--with what? Claiming Zevran, punishing him for having something he didn't? Zevran doesn't ask. The distraction is sometimes annoying, but there's still pleasure in it.

And then everything went to shit.

* * *

Dagny knows she doesn't have a match. Neither does Leske, or Rica. Mother did, and he left. So, as romantic as the idea seems to her in the time between lying down and falling asleep, Dagny is glad to be without. Dagny is glad that her notes and drawings and tiny whispered dreams are hers alone, safe.

Beraht provides paper with the ink, for Rica to practice poetry and calligraphy, but Dagny prefers the intimacy and impermanance of her own skin.

What could she offer a match, anyway? She's casteless, too poor to barter for her own freedom, with a soft-hearted sister and a mother whose drunken uselessness makes her entirely dependent. All she knows are violence, lying, and poisons. It's better this way. 


	3. Chapter 3

Dying was the plan. Being recruited by a Grey Warden was not the plan.

And yet Zevran feels no remorse for his quick thinking. Guilt, yes, but not regret. It's an odd feeling.

Waking to her face as she kneeled over him, lips pursed as she waited for him to speak, brows knit in concern--for the man who'd tried to kill her! Perhaps not the hardest he could've, and he thinks she's come to suspect so, but at the time?

She accepted him. And since then, he's felt her kindness, survived impossible odds under her protection and provided the same. She eats his food. They share recipes for an other sort of cooking. Sit beside each other as they sharpen their weapons, talking about everything and nothing and whether to add a cat to the party. His sordid past doesn't phase her, though she expresses appropriate sympathies. Talk of her mother makes him want to hug her, and he does, and the feel of her small form pressed into him and her strong arms holding him close and safe--it sends him to bed with a smile on his face. Delighted. Content. Fond.

Ah, but nothing good can last. Not for him, and, as he's come to find, not for her.

Zevran likes her; Zevran wants her. He thinks she wants him, too. There's a bite of fear attatched to the idea of making a proposition--she says he can leave whenever he likes, but he doesn't want to. Even if some unfortunate feelings were to get involved.

He makes it anyway. Her mere kiss sends sparks dancing through his veins. Her sigh as he peels her armor away has him grinning, and he barely notices her undressing him in turn. Until he feels warm, calloused hands gripping the curve of his naked hip. His own slide over her scars like water over rocks, logging them for tired murmurs by the campfire when one of them's on watch and the other can't sleep. But then he finds a different texture, and his gaze catches on something else.

A flower below her ribs, painted in soft purple strokes.

He has one in the same spot, exactly like it.

She sees it.

She freezes.

Zevran steps back, pressing his palm over the mark. "It doesn't have to mean anything," he mutters, harsher than he'd meant.

He likes her. He could love her. It's terrifying, and wrong; he's so much less than what she deserves.

For a long, long moment, Dagny simply looks at him, blank. She's never been the most expressive by nature, but there's a coldness to the neutrality now, something so terrible he feels like there are needles stabbing into his heart.

And then she smiles, and suddenly everything's so much worse.

"Of course it doesn't," she says, too loud. Dagny grabs a tunic from her nest of a bed roll, pulling it over her head. Zevran doesn't move. "I'm going to see if breakfast's stumbled into our traps yet. You can sleep here if you like, I remember how Alistair used to snore."

And then she ducks out. Zevran still doesn't move.

At some point, he sits down. The flower's gone. Peeking under the hem of his skirt, he sees the mabari doodle is, too. He gets his top back on, waits for her to come back. Gives up when dawn's come, and he can hear, distantly, Dagny talking with Morrigan.

Leliana smirks and winks at him. Oghren tips his morning ale. Alistair grimaces, awkward. And Wynne's meaningful glare is a silent shovel talk by itself, the best he's heard.

But beyond that, there's nothing different. Dagny treats him the same as always.

It's disappointing.

* * *

She has a soulmate, but it doesn't matter. She's found her soulmate in someone she already loves, but this, too, doesn't matter, because he doesn't love her. It's not a happy coincidence, a confirmation of her feelings and destiny and how everything's going to turn out okay in the end and they'll still be together after the archdemon's defeated. It means nothing.

So Dagny doesn't sell the next bundle of blank vellum she finds, and resolves to never trouble her match with shared marks again.

She tries to treat Zevran the same, but he doesn't make it easy. Furtive glances across the camp, practically running from her when she comes to talk, staying quiet and apart when they're on the job. It's infuriating.

It's not like she's trying to cage him into anything. She thought she'd made that clear.

His avoidance hurts. She misses him, and Wynne's pointed comments to her and Alistair's to Zevran are not helping at all. Yes, Wynne warned her getting involved with someone was a bad idea, but the reasons she listed have nothing to do with why they're losing their assassin.

By the stone, Dagny hopes they're not losing Zevran.

"I'm fine," Zevran's saying. Morrigan persists, practically snarling when he tries to yank his injured arm from her grip. An ogre'd trapped him in a corner, and he'd had no option but to block his swing, Morrigan's spells focused on getting Alistair out of the other one's grip. Good news: his head was unhurt. Bad: the bones in his forearm were shattered.

'He should have backed off,' Dagny thinks. 'He should have focused on the first one with us, let the second bat me around for a minute. I could've taken it. He can't.' Rage, inexplicable and uncaring for it, grips her, begs her to speak them, berate him, start a fight if only to get him to_ look at her_-

Alistair says them for her, and she's distracted playing peacemaker.

Not a word passes Zevran's lips the whole walk back to camp.

When they get to the edges, she stops. Alistair and Morrigan, enraptured in 'banter', pass her by without realizing. Zevran, though, stops beside her, gaze curious, stance defensive.

"You know I'm not your keeper, right?"

"No, you're Sten's."

"Technically, sure," she allows. Snorts. "_Theoretically_. But in practice he does as he likes, and he'll leave when he likes. He knows that. Do you?"

"Do I know Sten's free?"

Dagny sighs. She's tempted to drop it, stomp off, leave him to wallow in his...whatever-it-is. But this is important; if she wants to keep Zevran--as a friend, an ally, a match--she needs to ignore the anxiety threading her pulse and get this squared away.

"You can leave, if you want."

"You've told me that."

"That was before I saw my mark on you. You've been so different since, I just want you to know_ we_ don't have to be. _We aren't._ You're not chained to me because of an accident of fate."

"'Accident of fate'?" he repeats. There's something hollow to it that sets warning bells a-ringing in her ears.

Dagny swallows, confesses, "I loved you before. I love you now. I don't know why you never responded, and if you don't want to give me an answer, that's fine. You don't owe me one. You don't owe me anything."

She looks down. Zevran's thumb brushes her cheek, spreading a wetness she didn't realize was there. She doesn't look up.

"I know," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I didn't-I didn't mean to make you feel like this. I just-I don't want to hurt you."

"You are."

He recoils. Losing his touch brings her eyes back to his own. He's crying, too, eyeliner staining his face in black rivulets.

"You don't understand."

"Let me try." Dagny takes his hand, holds it between them, interlinks their fingers. "I'm no saint myself, you know. I have lived in fear, and desperation, and hunger, and I have done terrible things trying to make it better."

Zevran's free hand reaches for her.

He never lets go. 


	4. Chapter 4

He never used to write letters. He writes her one every day, even if it's just to say hello and tell her he's well.

Every time he bathes, he paints a bellflower under his ribs. It's not enough. His skin was so occupied, once upon a time, and seeing his flesh so bare in the mirror sends him to tears, or violence, or both.

He learns to avoid them, feeling guilty for the damage done to whatever inn'd allowed him in. He feels out of control, off balance, too big for his body and too small for the world.

The Crows try to kill him. Part of him is disappointed that they fail, and he spends the entire eve inking apologies his match will never read. He wonders if there's still skin left for mirrored words to show up on.

He gets more tattoos. Never the bellflower, that one's too personal for someone not her to put it on him. It'd become their symbol, somehow.

He writes to her. She never answers. A reversal of their youths.

He wonders if she ever forgave him--he knows she did. He doesn't. So much time, wasted.

He visits Orzammar once, to see her family. Her mother's sober, braids his hair, doesn't judge when he drinks himself stupid and makes a mess of her couch. Rica tells him stories Dagny herself had never had the time to share. Endrin has her eyes.

He doesn't go back. 


End file.
